


Here's to You, Kiddo

by MellytheHun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Artist Stiles Stilinski, Blow Jobs, Bully Jackson, Bullying, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Homophobic Language, Jock Derek, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3228692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My beautiful Silvana sent me this prompt on tumblr; "A high school Sterek au with basketball star Derek and artist Stiles! And if you can incorporate Stiles having a tattoo related to his mom that'd be great but if not I love you anyways!!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's to You, Kiddo

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is being bullied throughout this fic by Jackson. The bullying events could be triggering and there is physical violence. 
> 
> The bullying events were real things that happened to me in middle school, so I think this can hit a little close to home for some folks. Be careful reading!

"Aw, crap, come  _on_!” Stiles complains.

He steps out of the school doors just in time for torrential downpour. He looks pitifully at his sketchbook in his hands, then at his full satchel hanging by his waist. He pulls up the hood on his red jacket and slips his sketchbook under his shirts, hoping he doesn’t somehow manage to give himself a paper cut on his belly. 

He steps out from the cover of the school and into the empty parking lot. He mutters angrily to himself,

"Why do I stay this late? Why do I do this to myself? It’s not like I can’t sketch at home. Bad things happen to people that stay here after dismissal. No fuckin’ bus, no fuckin’ sun."

He nearly trips on a crack in the sidewalk, but he manages to balance himself out. He feels the rain seeping in through his back, shoulders and arms and starts to worry about his sketchbook. He whines to himself as he leaves the parking lot and walks down a residential sidewalk. He wonders if it’s even worth it at this point to start jogging the rest of the five blocks home, but then he hears a vaguely familiar voice call his name.

He glances around and uses his free hand to pull his hood further out to better hood his eyes from the rain. He sees diagonally, across the street from him, Derek Hale.

Stiles’ heart does this flip-flop-flip thing it likes to do whenever his brain is forced to acknowledge how impossibly handsome Derek is. Usually it’s within the relative safety of crowded hallways, though, where Stiles can hide behind people and duck into classrooms to avoid eye-contact.

Now, however, Derek is headed right for him, giving him no scapegoat, already outstretching his hand to give Stiles cover under his umbrella. Stiles’ body stiffens uncomfortably as Derek walks into his space, still in basketball shorts and a zipped up jacket. Derek seems glad to see him for some reason, making Stiles suspicious. Derek is smiling kindly, dripping from the rain he was just in.

"You’re soaked," Derek comments, a bit out of breath from having run to him.

Stiles figures it’s safe enough under the umbrella to take out his sketchbook and check how damp it is. He pulls it out from under his shirts and jacket while he replies,

"Yeah, this jacket isn’t really helping me any."

Derek reaches over, making Stiles flinch before he’s just gently pushing Stiles’ hood back so that it falls off his moist head. Stiles rubs at his hair nervously, unused to being under the scrutiny of Derek. 

In fact, he has never been so close to Derek Hale before. His eyes are magnificent so up close and Stiles is tempted to dedicate them to memory, to later paint them. He doesn’t think he’s capable of memorizing that kind of color pattern, though. He begins hoping to himself that he’ll get another chance to see them in a personal setting, where he can start a sketch of them. He imagines his expansive watercolor pencil collection and getting to use so many for one picture.

He decides his sketchbook isn’t too badly moistened and he lets go of his anxiety over it. He looks up at the umbrella protecting them and then back to Derek. He asks,

"Thanks, but, uh, what are you still doing by the school?"

Derek gestures at his shorts and says, “I just got out of practice a little while ago.”

Stiles glances around and when he sees no one else, he asks,

"Where’s the rest of the team?"

Derek goes rigid for a brief second, then recovers and says strangely,

"I, uhm. I just got the sense that you were still around."

Stiles’ brow furrows.

"… you got the sense… I was still around?"

"I saw the light on!" Derek offers, obviously glad to have come up with a plausible excuse, "I saw the light on in the art room on the second floor! So, I stayed."

"How did you know it was me in there and not a teacher?" Stiles interrogates.

Derek tells him plainly, “You’re always here after dismissal. You stay to draw, right?”

Stiles tilts his head curiously and asks softly, “How do you know that?”

"I’ve never seen you on any of the buses, but I have seen you after I get out of practice. You’ve always got your sketchbook out."

Stiles decides he’ll accept the answer. He gestures at the umbrella and to Derek again and says,

"This was nice and all, but I’ve still got five blocks to walk til I get home, so…"

"I can walk you," Derek suggests easily, "If you don’t mind, I’d like to."

Stiles heart flutters and he nods.

"Alright. Yeah."

Stiles is fairly surprised to find that Derek’s not really a conversationalist, though he’ll entertain some basic questions. He seems more interested in smiling at the sidewalk and stealing sideway glances at Stiles. He holds the umbrella a little more over Stiles than he does himself, allowing his exposed shoulder to get wet, but Stiles is a touch too embarrassed to call him out on it or ask why.

"Can I see some of your stuff?" Derek inquires, nodding his head at the sketchbook.

Stiles shakes his head vigorously and trails, “Oh, no, I don’t, uh…”

Derek chuckles sweetly and assures, “Don’t worry, it’s fine. That’s why I asked. I know not everyone is comfortable showing.”

Stiles’ heart rate declines to a more normal pace and then Derek asks him what he likes to draw. Stiles shrugs and says,

"I dunno. When I’m painting, I like doing landscapes. Mostly ones with water, like lakes and reflections. If I’m doing traditional art with pen and paper, I like doing cartoons and portraits. I watched a lot of anime growing up, so my cartoon style is inspired by that a lot, I think. I like doing realism, but it takes me a lot longer."

Derek’s looking at him again, making his neck hot. Derek asks,

"What are your favorite mediums?"

Stiles is more than a little shocked that Derek knows to call them ‘mediums,’ but then he thinks he might have been unfair about his rough schema of Derek Hale. 

He’d imagined Derek was Type A Cool Guy, who makes conversation center around him, draws people into caring about him without caring about others and maybe not the brightest bulb in the bundle. He knows Lydia Martin would drop Jackson in a heartbeat if Derek Hale asked her out and that’s saying something; Stiles always assumed that because Derek was so high ranking in the social hierarchy, that he’d be cold. Out of reach from Stiles.

Stiles isn’t exactly a hermit, but he wouldn’t call himself popular. Not by any stretch. 

He answers Derek,

"I like pencils and markers. Copic markers are my favorite, because they blend really well. Makes shading stupidly easy. They’re also stupidly expensive. I like colored pencils too. I like the watercolored ones. I really like pastel colors, but hate using pastels to actually work with. Something about their grind on paper makes my teeth itchy."

Derek actually laughs at that, which startles Stiles in how unfamiliar the sound is. Derek gesticulates to Stiles’ sketchbook and asks,

"What do you like sketching with?"

"I like my paper to have a lot of tooth. You know, that’s, uhm, it’s — it’s a quality of the paper —"

"I know what tooth is," Derek smiles gently.

Stiles hesitates, then continues, “Right… well, uh, I like paper with a lot of tooth and I like sketching with 6B pencils. They’re kinda thick and a little heavy, but I find that I like the thickness of the strokes.”

Derek nods and compliments, “That’s really cool.”

Stiles scoffs and replies, “No, it’s not.”

Now is usually the point in the I’m-a-teenage-artist conversation where person B starts gearing up to ask Stiles to draw them. The question doesn’t come, though. Derek’s brows are pinched and he insists,

"No, it really is. I think your art is cool."

Stiles laughs nervously and says, “You haven’t even seen any of it.”

Derek explains, “That’s not what’s cool. What’s cool is how much you know about it and how passionate you are about it.”

Stiles clutches his sketchbook a little tighter and shifts the strap of his satchel so that the actual satchel stops bumping against Derek’s thigh. It’s quiet for the rest of the walk to Stiles’ house despite the rain and faraway thunder. 

When they get to Stiles’ front porch, Stiles takes out his keys, fumbling for the house key and Derek asks,

"If you’ve got that Jeep, why didn’t you take it to school?"

"I live super close to the school anyway and gas has been crazy expensive. I’m cutting corners where I can."

Derek hums in agreement and when Stiles finds the key, he shows it uselessly to Derek and says,

"So, uh — thanks. For the walk home."

Derek doesn’t answer, just extends his arm with the umbrella, allowing himself to get soaked. Stiles blinks in confusion at him for a few moments before Derek says,

"Keep it. You need it more than I do."

"Dude," Stiles starts, "it’s raining. You need to get home."

"I’ll get there just fine," Derek replies, still holding the umbrella out.

Stiles shakes his head, “You’ll get pneumonia!”

There’s something curious in Derek’s smirk when he says, “Trust me, I won’t get sick. Take the umbrella and don’t get stuck in the rain again.”

Stiles reaches out and accidentally clasps his hand over Derek’s. Their wet fingers slide against each other, making Stiles’ pulse jump. Not that Derek hasn't been real, but it touching the hard of his knuckles and feeling the slip of his skin makes him so suddenly _real_. When Stiles takes the umbrella under the cover of his porch’s overhang, Derek smiles at him. His eyes are squinted and his eyelashes are clumping together in the rain. His hair is weighed down by the rivulets, but his smile is easily light and thoughtlessly charming. 

He shows his hand to Stiles in a wave and says,

"See you later, Stiles!"

When he takes off in a jog and disappears around the bend of the block, Stiles wonders to himself how Derek even knows who he is.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is in the cafeteria with Scott, doodling in his sketchbook, trying and failing for the hundredth time to get Derek’s jawline right when he feels the presence of someone over his shoulder. He covers his paper with his arms and looks behind him. There’s a girl he knows only as Carrie and she sneers at him. 

"What’s the point of drawing out in the open if you don’t want people to look at it?"

"Just because I’m drawing in the cafeteria doesn’t mean I invited the cafeteria to watch me," Stiles snaps.

The girl gives him a dangerous eye and then stalks off to another table, where Jackson, Danny, Lydia and a few other popular people are. Derek isn’t with them and Stiles only ever sees Derek sit with them on rare occasions. Derek really seems to like sitting with Boyd, who’s authoritative air and impressive bulk keeps people away from the table, except for another basketball player, Isaac and Boyd’s girlfriend, Erica. 

Scott groans sadly and announces, “I gotta go use my nebulizer.”

"You’re still not better yet?" Stiles asks.

Scott had been sick a week before with some kind of upper respiratory infection that gave him the asthma attack of the century. He’s been using a nebulizer every day since then. Stiles hates when Scott has to use it, because it seems to drain Scott of all his energy and he sometimes comes back from using it at the nurse’s office with tiny pink welts randomly dotted on his neck or face. Stiles is certain he’s having an allergic reaction to some steroid in the nebulizer, but Scott brushes him off.

Scott shrugs miserably and Stiles waves him away and orders,

"Go. Go to the nurse and continue breathing, please."

Scott gives him a weak smile and insists, “I’m trying, I swear.”

Once Stiles is alone at the table, he moves his arms and starts sketching again. He gives up on Derek’s jawline for the time being and starts working on his brow. He knows he really liked looking at the lines of Derek’s face, where the ridges around his eyes meet his nose and the tilt and round to the shape of Derek’s eyes. As he’s getting a bit lost (and a little bit humored) in darkening Derek’s thick eyebrows, an arm appears in front of him faster than he can move and snatches his sketchbook from the table. 

"Hey!"

He twists around and sees Jackson with Carrie behind him, both of them scrutinizing his work. 

"Give it back, Jackson," Stiles warns.

Jackson hums, smirking and turns a page; Stiles isn’t embarrassed that his anatomy study work is in there, but he knows he’s about to be mocked for it. Carrie gasps and he knows that’s when they’ve found it.

"Oh my God, why are you drawing _dicks_?"

"Give me my sketchbook back," Stiles demands, the back of his eyes burning.

"Christ, Stilinski, is this entire sketchbook full of naked dudes?" Jackson laughs out.

He starts flipping through pages carelessly and Stiles scrambles to try to get the book from him, but Jackson pulls his arm further and further away while Carrie laughs. Lydia and Danny are trying to call Jackson back, but Jackson doesn’t seem to care. There efforts are so half-hearted, Stiles hates them more for saying anything at all. 

The sketchbook is taken from Jackson by Derek, who stands there glaring dangerously at him, backed by Boyd, Isaac and Erica. He shuts it closed without looking and hands it back to Stiles without making eye contact. He only scowls darkly at Jackson. Jackson is taller, but Derek has more muscle than him. He actually looks quite intimidating.

He cautions Jackson, “Watch yourself, Whittemore.”

Jackson rolls his eyes, but Stiles can see the nervousness in how tense his shoulders are.

"Or what?"

"Or I’ll kick the shit out of you."

Even Boyd seems taken aback at the menace in Derek’s voice. Jackson glowers back at Derek and mocks loudly,

"What, is he your boyfriend or something?"

"What if he is?" Derek asks, taking a step closer to Jackson, who unconsciously takes a step back, "What if he is my boyfriend?"

Jackson doesn’t answer. Derek points at Jackson, making him flinch and he points to Carrie too before he advises darkly,

"From now on, you fuck with Stiles, you fuck with me. You understand?"

Jackson waits before giving a curt nod and Derek asks,

"Really? Jackson, you’ve got the mental capacity of an earth worm, so I’m going to go ahead and repeat it so you _really_ hear me."

He takes another step into Jackson’s space and repeats lowly,

"From now on, when you fuck with Stiles, you are fucking with me. If you fuck with me, Jackson, I will kick the shit out of you."

Jackson nods and Derek tells him,

"Now get the fuck out."

Jackson walks away slowly, sparing a single, semi-threatening look to Stiles while Derek’s back is turned. Carrie follows closely behind him, whispering as the cafeteria melts into it’s normal level of conversation again. Stiles hadn’t even realized how hushed things had gone when the fight started. His heart is still racing when Derek sits beside him and asks,

"Are you okay?"

Stiles nods, watching disbelievingly as Isaac, Boyd and Erica take seats on the bench across from him. Derek is straddling the bench, facing Stiles and he inquires,

"Is it okay if I touch you?"

Stiles nods and Derek’s hands come down on his shoulders. His thumbs rub back and forth soothingly and his voice is gentle when it comes;

"I’m sorry I didn’t get over here faster. I should’ve — "

"You stuck up for me," Stiles says with no small measure of awe.

He looks at Erica and Isaac and Boyd and then Derek, his face radiating appreciation. He puts one of his hands over Derek’s and adds,

"Thank you. No one but Scott has ever done that before."

Derek smiles a little sadly and tells him, “I’m sorry this has happened before.”

Stiles shrugs, feeling tense about his privacy having been invaded, but still feeling flattered and relieved and  _saved_. He watches Derek’s eyes fall to his wrist, where his tattoo is showing.

“ _I love you, kiddo_?” Derek asks.

Stiles pulls up his jacket sleeve to show the full line of handwriting. It’s small, so he puts his arm on the table so the others can read it too. He explains,

"My mom had a brain disease that eventually killed her. It acts a lot like Alzheimer’s and she was thirty-eight when she lost her ability to write. She stopped being able to speak soon after that. It was a progressive disease, so it only got worse and that was the last thing she ever wrote me."

Derek takes gentle hold of Stiles’ forearm and gazes down at the handwriting reverently. Stiles’ mouth continues without his full consent, because he’s still riding an adrenaline high and he’s being examined by someone he can hardly keep his eyes off of. Someone he can hardly believe has their eyes on _him_.

"My dad took me to get it tattooed a few months after her funeral. I told him it would make me feel better and I think he was really desperate to help. Sixteen with an adult and you can get one, so I asked them to copy the words straight off the last birthday card she ever wrote."

"I can’t get a tattoo," Derek says, somehow more to himself than Stiles.

"Why not?" Stiles asks curiously.

Derek hesitates again, like he did when they were standing in the rain outside the school parking lot and he eventually says,

"Uh, my mom won’t let me."

Erica leans over the table, touching her finger over the slightly raised skin on Stiles’ arm and she says,

"I really like it. It’s sentimental and I think it was a nice choice."

Stiles smiles at her and thanks her. Isaac adds,

"I like tattoos. I know our skin sheds and cells replace themselves and everything, but I have this weird idea in my head that the skin under a tattoo never changes. So, that time of when you lost your mom still exists on your skin, right there. But only in the shape of those words."

Stiles nods and watches Derek’s thumb brush over his skin tenderly.

That’s when Scott comes back in, two pink little welts on his neck and sees their new table inhabitants. He can tell something just went down by Stiles’ body language and he asks,

"What… what did I just miss?"

 

* * *

 

It turns out that Erica and Boyd are frustratingly cute together and Isaac and Scott were a match made in heaven. Stiles would normally be aggravated or territorial about it, but he’s finding himself more and more often in the company of Derek. 

Scott and Stiles start going to the basketball games at the school, eventually so suckered that they even buy BHH t-shirts with the basketball team name on it with their mascot. They feel silly, but Stiles has fun with it. 

On Derek’s practice days, Stiles brings his sketchbook and pencil case to the gymnasium and half-watches him play. He’ll sometimes stop drawing altogether when Derek takes his shirt off. He wants to be able to draw Derek’s back muscles, because he’s pretty certain he had a religious vision in them, but his hands go tingly and useless when he catches the glisten of Derek’s sweat across his broad shoulders. 

Derek doesn’t ask to look in his sketchbook, but asks questions about what he’s drawing and gives him ideas of what to draw when he’s struggling. (He’s never struggling, he just says he is so Derek doesn’t catch on to the fact that his entire sketchbook is filled with rough drafts of Derek’s face and torso and legs and action poses and - )

Boyd drags all of them to Erica’s debate competitions and when Stiles asks if there are t-shirts for that too, he’s met with Boyd’s very, very dry stare. Derek seems immensely pleased with the exchange. 

Isaac, as it turns out, does Tai Chi recreationally outside of school. He tells Scott all about their specific and lengthy breathing exercises and while Stiles doesn’t entirely understand it, Scott and Isaac become breathing-buddies. He thinks Scott looks like a big dork doing Tai Chi stretches and breathing exercises, but he notices that Scott is using his inhaler a little less week by week, so he doesn’t poke any fun.

On days when there are no practices, Derek follows Stiles to the art room on the second floor. He never peers over Stiles’ shoulder or bugs him about wanting to know what he’s doing. He's perfect company too Stiles and Stiles thinks to himself often that he's never had a companion quite like Derek. Derek makes origami at the table where Stiles is working, though and plays music from his iPhone and it’s really absurdly pleasant. 

And on those days, Derek walks him home and sometimes stops in for dinner with him and the Sheriff, and other times heads straight to his own home for his own obligatory suppers. 

One day, when there is no practice, Stiles and Derek go into the art room on the second floor and Derek’s air goes stiff and uneasy immediately. Stiles looks at him and asks,

"What?"

Derek glances around the room and mutters, “Someone’s been here.”

"Uh, yeah, dude," Stiles laughs, "A lot of people have been here. It’s the Drawing and Painting room. Literally tons of people come in and out all day."

"No," Derek shakes his head, his nostrils flaring, "Someone was just here."

Stiles’ brow furrows, but he leaves Derek looking suspicious in the doorway to go get his sketchbook from his designated cubby. He pulls out his sketchbook to find it written on in bold, black sharpie.

**_FAGGOT_ **

**_ASSHOLE_ **

**_DIPSHIT_ **

**_PUSSY_ **

Duct tape is criss-crossed all over it, covering the entire sketchbook, rendering it shut. It even looks to Stiles that some of the pages are torn inside. 

His hands start shaking and he’s staring at his forty-dollar sketchbook now totally vandalized and useless, wondering what would motivate another human being to do this. He’s worried he’s about to start crying in front of Derek, humiliation and feelings of worthlessness bubbling hotly behind his eyes -- and he doesn’t even know how he’s going to explain this to his art teacher, seeing as all his work has been in that sketchbook. 

Derek takes the book from him, running it under his nose. Stiles is in too much shock to register that, but what does settle like a rock in his stomach is when Derek _growls_ ,

"Jackson."

Derek is out the door and down the stairs so quickly, Stiles has to double back to get his satchel from the table where he left it because he’s in such a rush to catch up. He loses track of Derek until he hears loud shouts come from the parking lot.

He runs outside to find Jackson on his back, on the asphalt by his porsche. Lydia is shrieking and hitting Derek’s back with her purse to get him off Jackson. And as far as Stiles can tell from his distance, Derek is pounding Jackson’s pretty face right into the ground.

Stiles sprints over, calling out,

"Derek! Derek! Hey, stop!"

It’s only when he actually stands before Derek that Derek stops hooking his bloody knuckles into Jackson’s head. His head shoots up sharply to Stiles and Stiles has a chill run up his spine when he _swears_ that for a second Derek’s eyes glow gold. 

He reaches his shaking hand out and says,

"Derek, stop — come on."

Derek sweeps by him, taking Stiles by the small of his back and rapidly walking away. Stiles is trying to look at Derek without tripping over his feet when they hear Jackson’s voice, nasally from what sounds like a broken nose,

"You’re an  _asshole_ , Hale! You’re _dead_!”

Derek twists around, eyes _definitely_ glowing gold. He points and yells back,

"You fucked with me, Jackson! I told you what the fuck would happen! I told you! You fucked up big time! I could fuckin’ kill you - "

"Hey," Stiles intervenes softly, "Hey — it’s a notebook, Derek, it’s just a notebook."

Derek blinks the glow from his eyes and looks back to Stiles. There is so much power in Derek’s tightly wound muscles, he’s vibrating with tension. His eyes are sharp and intense when he says,

"It was your sketchbook. It was yours. He hurt you."

Before Stiles can say anything else, Derek is leading them back inside the building and wrapping Stiles up in his arms. The embrace is harsh in how tight it is, but Stiles can pick up the calming scent of Derek’s skin and the smooth cotton of Derek’s shirt against his. It’s nice. It’s what he needs and he thinks it’s what Derek needs.

"What… what are you?"

He feels Derek’s heartbeat go hard and fast and when he doesn’t answer, Stiles asks quite honestly,

"Are you an angel?"

Derek laughs and it comes out more like a sob. Stiles looks up at him from under his lashes, pulling away enough to stare into Derek’s incredible eyes to find them watery. He’s smiling bitterly, brows sad and face blotchy red.

"No. I am not an angel, Stiles."

 

* * *

 

"Will they ever let you play again?"

Derek shrugs to Erica, replying, “They don’t know yet. I was lucky not to get expelled.”

Isaac interrupts his breathing sequence in a strange squatting position (which Scott is mimicking next to him) to say,

"You’re the best player. Coach is doing everything he can to get you back on."

Stiles smirks, now knowing _precisely_ why Derek is the best player. Boyd hums an indiscernible noise and the conversation seems to end there. Stiles throws his hands up and says,

"What? That’s all the scolding he gets? He went _apeshit_ on Jackson!"

Scott smiles, eyes still shut and shifting his weight to his other knee,

"To be honest, I’m kind of proud of him."

Isaac adds, “Yeah, Jackson had that beat-down coming from a mile away.”

Boyd makes another noise and Erica says,

"It’s kind of hard to feel bad on Jackson’s account."

When Derek smiles innocently at him, Stiles wags his finger and chides,

"Don’t give me that look, Hale. As seriously entertaining as it was to see you beat Jackson to a pulp, I can’t condone violence."

"Come on, Stiles," Derek starts, but Stiles stops him by saying,

"I’m a turn-the-other-cheek kind of guy."

"Good — keep that cheek turned, so I can continue punching the cheeks of everyone you’ve needed to turn yours to."

Stiles rolls his eyes, but can’t help the flattered smile that crops up on his face.

Later that day, when the gang has split into their usual pairs, Derek insists on going to the art room. Stiles tells him he really isn’t keen on going in there until he can erase the dreadful feeling that happens in the pit of his stomach every time he walks through that door. Or maybe until he can clean his brain with bleach. 

Derek is hanging onto the stairway railing, looking tantalizing and flirtatious. He teases,

"I’ll show you my full beta form if you come up here with me."

Stiles’ interest is definitely piqued. He sighs and concedes. When they make it to the room, there is a wrapped gift waiting for Stiles on the table he usually sits at. He glances at Derek who is beaming and radiating pride. Stiles walks over to it, carefully unwrapping the paper.

The first thing he pulls out is his old sketchbook. The cover and back have been blacked out with dark markers to cover the slurs and while there’s damage from the tape, all of the tape has been removed from it. He looks to Derek and the Were suddenly looks a bit sheepish.

"I swear I didn’t look inside," He promises, "My sister, Laura, works at Michael’s arts and crafts store and she helped me get all the tape off with minimal damage. I don’t know if they did anything to the inside, but… I know you worked a lot in that book, so I wanted you to be able to have it back."

Stiles looks down and finds that beneath his old sketchbook is a new one of the same brand and size, price tag sticker residue on the bottom corner, unused and beside that is a case of 6B pencils. He picks up the case and says softly,

"…you bought me 6B pencils…"

"Yeah, that day you said — "

"I know," Stiles nods, tears budding at the corners of his eyes.

Derek is giving off very nervous vibes, so he makes sure to smile widely. He meets Derek’s stare and says,

"Here," before handing his old sketchbook over.

Derek holds it, looking lost until Stiles says, “Look through it.”

Derek’s eyebrows show how uncertain he is, but Stiles gives him the same stern look Derek gave him when he insisted Stiles take his umbrella. Stiles watches Derek open it and revels in watching the awe slowly dawn on Derek’s face as he sees that every page is filled with attempts at capturing his likeness. 

He looks up briefly from one page and says, “These… you were drawing me?”

Stiles shrugs despite knowing Derek can hear how fast his heart is.

"Oh, you know how pretty you are."

He means for it to be a joke, but Derek looks severely genuine and serious. He puts the book down on the table and walks into Stiles' space, cupping one of his cheeks. He searches Stiles’ eyes and Stiles lets his own eyes flicker back and forth between Derek’s. Then Derek’s question comes, shy and bare,

"Can I kiss you?"

Stiles doesn’t hesitate to nod and as soon as he does, his mouth is pressed up against Derek’s full lips. One of Derek’s hands is on his waist and the other moves to cradle the back of his head. He licks into Stiles’ mouth and when Stiles gives a quiet moan, Derek backs away. His eyes are flashing and Stiles gets a rush from the thought that he’s made Derek lose his tight control.

"Are you okay?"

"I’m… yeah. I’m more than okay," Derek tells him, touching his lips like he can still feel Stiles there, "I'm... I'm very okay."

"I can keep quiet, if you - "

"Don’t," Derek tells him quickly, "Never, ever make the nosies stop. I just have to keep control."

"Well," Stiles smirks, leaning on the art table, "No one said you  _have_  to.”

Stiles is thrilled by the thrown expression that washes over Derek's handsome face. He's so unprepared for that invitation, Stiles has to grab his hands and put them back on his waist. He bumps their noses together and says against Derek's lips,

"I trust you."

Stiles feels Derek get a full body chill and watches Derek's gaze go lightning gold and incandescent. He intakes sharply and then Derek is kissing him again, licking along Stiles' bottom lip and running their tongues together. Stiles digs his fingers into Derek's upper back like he might be massaging him, but really, he's holding on for dear life because he feels like he's falling. 

Derek's hands clasp around his waist and lift him onto the table effortlessly. He stands between Stiles' legs, lips swollen, face and ears red and he inquires,

"Can I go down on you?"

Stiles makes this weak, high-pitched laugh and nods as violently as his spine will allow. 

"Oh my God, yes -- I -- you can -- whatever you want, Derek. I'm -- whatever you want."

Derek grins and Stiles is half relieved (and strangely half disappointed) to see there are no fangs there. Derek kisses the corner of his lips, down his cheek and then down the column of his neck. While he's sucking an impressive bruise into Stiles' neck and wringing loud noises from him for his efforts, he's also unbuttoning Stiles' jeans. 

Stiles' fingers comb through Derek's soft, ebony hair and when Derek bites gently at his sensitive jugular, he tugs with similar force on Derek's hair and groans appreciation to him. He runs his hands up Derek's shirt and plays with his pert nipples, elated by the helpless gasps and grunts his rubbing and pinching extract. 

"Stiles," Derek moans and it's like a spell he casts over Stiles.

Stiles has never loved the sound of his name so much. He circles the pads of his thumbs over Derek's nipples again and Derek gasps against his lips, looking a little drunk on tension and he says it again, just as gruff, just as raspy,

" _Stiles_."

"Oh, God," Stiles whispers, palming his erection to keep from coming just at the sound of Derek's voice.

Derek backs away enough from Stiles to pull his jeans and boxers down past his calves. Stiles feels pretty absurd, still mostly dressed, ass cold against the table top and throbbing erection in the open air of his art classroom. Fortunately, he can't be bothered with shame because he has a brain and a dick and only enough blood in his body to operate one at a time.

He's legitimately worried someone in the parking lot could have heard his groan when Derek licks up the underside of his cock. 

"This is going to be embarrassingly quick and I should apologize in advance," Stiles warns, shutting his eyes and leaning back on his arms. 

Derek is on his knees on the bench of the table, looking absolutely unperturbed by Stiles' words. His hooded eyes meet Stiles' when he takes Stiles in his mouth, at which point Stiles throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut to try to keep from coming immediately. 

Derek's mouth is unimaginably hot, his tongue is so smooth and he's so _wet_. Stiles makes a weeping noise while he feels Derek's throat work to take him further and further down. He grabs onto Derek's hair so soon and he's really pretty devastated that his first sexual experience is ending so quickly, but he can hardly comprehend what's happening to him because _Derek Hale is giving him head in his art room_.

"I'm gonna come," Stiles warns, trying to push Derek off him with bloodless arms, "Derek -- Derek, you gotta get off, I'm gonna come."

Derek slides his mouth off only to say, in a raspy, used voice that makes Stiles' heart thump, "I want to swallow. Don't hold back."

Stiles _does_ weep at that, throwing his weight back against the table like Derek has just said something terrible.

It takes only a few more moments of Derek's mouth on him before he's warning Derek again and then coming down his throat, fingers useless in Derek's hair and entire body seized in pleasure. 

When Stiles' vision comes back, he shifts his weight onto his elbows again to stare at Derek. Derek is licking his lips, pupils blown and irises glittering gold. Stiles asks him,

"Can I do that for you?"

He relishes in how red Derek's ears and cheeks get. He nods and Stiles pulls his jeans up, leaving them undone and loose. He moves to the floor and maneuvers Derek with him. Derek lies on his back and Stiles takes a few minutes to worship Derek's torso and run his fingertips over the thick hair trailing from Derek's navel to below his waistband. He smiles to himself on a power trip, because every single time his hands touch Derek's heated skin, he sees and feels Derek's cock throb in his jeans. 

He undoes Derek's belt and pulls his jeans and briefs down, alarmed by his own mouth watering. He doesn't hesitate to try to take all of Derek's length in his mouth at once. The noises Derek rewards him with are worth the struggle to breathe. He's embarrassed by the drool dripping down Derek's length, giving away any chance at subtlety Stiles ever had, but it's hard to stay embarrassed when Derek is moaning his name like prayer. 

His hands move along Derek's torso and push his shirt up while he swirls his tongue along and around Derek's head. His fingers find Derek's nipples again and play with them while his mouth and tongue work around Derek. Stiles can feel Derek's legs twitching on either side of him, adores the feeling of Derek's fingers gripping at his hair and he wonders to himself if he tastes as delicious to Derek as Derek does to him. 

"Stiles," Derek warns.

It's all the warning Stiles needs. He slowly drags his mouth off Derek and grips the length of him, his saliva making the slide of his grasp easy while still tight. He watches Derek's muscles shake and bunch in the open air of the room. His long torso is stretched out, his shirt bunched up by his underarms, nipples pink and hard, bottom kiss-swollen lip caught beneath his fangs and hands in his own hair. He sobs Stiles' name when he comes, pulsing hard and for a long while in Stiles' fist. 

When the electricity in the air calms down enough, Stiles rises to get paper towels kept by the paint supplies. While he's wiping between his fingers, he comes to stand in by Derek's feet. He's still on the floor, looking silly with his pants down and dick still mostly erect. Stiles asks,

"You doin' okay down there, Bud?"

"I can't hear you, my ears are still ringing."

Stiles laughs, swelling with pride. He tosses the paper towel into a nearby garbage bin and then sits down on the floor with Derek. 

Derek pulls his jeans up, buttons and zips them, but leaves his belt hanging open, still looking out of breath and blissed out. 

Derek takes his hand and brings it to his lips, kissing his knuckles sweetly. Stiles smiles at him adoringly and when Derek meets his gaze, he smirks and mentions,

"Well, at least now I can associate this room with something spectacular."


End file.
